Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

The rain had ceased, and weak sunlight filtered through the seventeenth-century hospital arches.

“Sylvie Coudray’s murder—” she began.

His eyes had narrowed to slits. “Who do you mean? They said Eugénie was killed.”

“Eugénie?” Aimée paused. Had Elymani gotten her confused with someone else? “Monsieur, can you describe her?”

Ahead, opposite them, a car pulled up.

“My hours change a lot,” Elymani said. “I’m not sure who you mean.”

A stocky man in a tight double-breasted suit alighted from the car and waved at Elymani.

Elymani slipped the worry beads back in his pocket and began sweeping. “Excuse me, but the patron’s here, and I haven’t hosed down the lockers.”

“Monsieur Elymani, does she live at number 20?” Aimée asked. “That’s all I want to know.”

“Look, I’m working,” he said bending down, scooping a clump of leaves into a plastic bag. “I need this job.”

“Monsieur Elymani, who’s Eugénie?” Aimée said. “Please, I’m confused.”

Elymani shook his head. “Lots of people come and go,” he said, motioning her toward the gate. “I get mixed up.”

Fine, she thought. Clam up when it suits you. She’d follow up later. She’d often found that witnesses who grew uncommunicative turned helpful later.

“May I talk with you after work?” she said, handing him her card.

“Don’t count on it,” he said.

“Please, only five minutes of your time.”

“Look, I work two jobs,” he muttered, glancing at the man who’d motioned to him a second time. “I’m lucky to do that.”

Aimée decided to cut her losses. She turned and walked over to the entrance of 20 bis and studied the nameplate. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Elymani in conversation with the man. He tossed her card into his garbage bag.

She ran her fingers over the name E. Grandet. Her mind teemed with questions. Why would Sylvie Coudray insist on meeting Anaïs here? Had Elymani mistaken Sylvie for Eugénie? Too bad the building had no concierge whom she could question. Concierges were a vanishing breed in Paris these days, especially in Belleville.

She had ventured one door down when a young woman with a stroller burst from the doorway. Empty string shopping bags twined around the handles.

“Excuse me,” Aimée said. “I’m investigating the death of a woman next door. Did you know her?”

The baby’s coo escalated to a higher pitch, and the woman’s mouth formed a moue of distaste. “I work the night shift,” she said glancing at her watch. “My husband too. We don’t know anyone. Or see anyone.”

The sky darkened, and a light patter of rain danced on their umbrellas.

“I’m sorry, I must bring the baby to the creche, give my mother-in-law some peace. Talk with her; she’s home all the time. Belle mtre, some flic wants to talk with you.”

She punched in the four-digit code, the door clicked, and she motioned Aimée inside.

“First floor on the right.” And the woman was gone.

The foyer, similar to next door’s, held piles of bundled circulars and newspapers in the corner. Aimée stuck her umbrella in a can with the others and tramped upstairs. A stout woman, her grizzled gray hair in a hairnet, beat a small carpet on the landing. The dull, rhythmic thwack-thwackl raised billows of dust. From the apartment interior, Aimée heard the Dallas theme song blaring from the television.

“Bonjour, Madame,” Aimée smiled, pulling out her ID. She felt the chill from her damp boots rise up her legs.

“You don’t look like a flic,” the old woman said, scanning Aimée up and down.

“You’re perceptive, Madame, I can tell,” Aimée said, edging up the stairs toward the door, trying to ascertain the view from inside her apartment. “I’m a private detective, Madame …?”

“Madame Visse,” she said, drawing out the s, her tone rising. “God’s got chosen helpers. Those he uses in emergencies.”

Aimée nodded. The old woman seemed a slice short of a baguette.

“May I come in?” she asked.

“Edouard—that’s my son—says people will think I’m folk, they’ll put me away,” she said, showing Aimée the way inside. “But that’s their problem, eh. I know what I know.”

Aimée looked around, noticing the boxlike front hall with rain boots, a crowded coatrack, and a crushed box of Pampers.

She moved into the kitchen. On the left a row of spice jars ringed the galley-style kitchen. Pots bubbled on the cooktop, curling steam fogged the only window. Rosemary and garlic aromas filled the air. Aimée’s stomach growled in appreciation—all she’d eaten today was a croissant. A patched lace panel hung over the open window, fluttering in the wind. To the left, inside a dark room lined with bookshelves, toys littered the floor. Cardboard boxes were piled everywhere.

“My son and daughter-in-law’s name are near the top of the housing list,” she said, her thin mouth curling as she frowned. “When they get the call, they’re packed.” The woman returned to her cooking and stirred the pot.

“Madame Visse, did you know the woman killed in the car bombing?” she asked, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen. She wanted to see if Madame Visse’s window looked into her neighbor’s courtyard. The window was to the left of the cooktop. It overlooked number 20’s back courtyard.

“Edouard’s eyes will open up,” the old woman said, lifting the lid on a pot. She smiled knowingly. “Yolande can’t cook to save her life.”

Why did Madame Visse ignore her question? The woman’s left hand shook with a slight, constant tremor Aimée hadn’t noticed before.

“That smells wonderful,” Aimée said, sidling toward Madame in the narrow kitchen. “Were you home when the car exploded last night?” She asked in what she hoped was a casual tone.

“Monday-evening rosary, dear,” Madame Visse sighed.

“Did you see anything happen in the courtyard last night?”

“All I saw was that idiot man across the courtyard exercising his cockatiel comme d’habitude, like he does every night.” She lifted a lid and stirred a simmering cassoulet. She controlled her tremor well.

“Did you notice anything unusual on the street?” Aimée asked. “Any strangers?”

“You look hungry,” Madame said, filling a bowl and thrusting it at her. “Sit down. Tell me if it needs more herbes de Provence. I have recipes I can share with you.”

“Nan merci, Madame,” Aimée declined, perching on a stool at the narrow table. Exasperation was creeping up on her. It had been a long day. She was in no mood for this woman.

She was sure the steaming cassoulet would melt in her mouth. A crusty baguette poked out of a bread basket.

“Try this,” the old woman said, proffering a bit of stew.

Aimée shook her head. “I’ll just take a bit of baguette.”

“Ah, you’re just like Eugénie. Too polite,” she said.

Aimée sat up, alert. First Hassan Elymani and now this old woman had mentioned Eugénie.

“We look alike too, eh?” Aimée said, in what she hoped was a tone inviting conversation.

Madame Visse crinkled her eyes, surveying Aimée from the stove. “That wouldn’t have been my first comment.” She set the lid down with a clang on the pot. “Your face and big eyes are similar, but Eugénie’s hair was…” she stopped and reached for a spice jar.

Aimée remembered Sylvie’s hair as long and dark, when she stood by the Mercedes.

Madame unscrewed the lid, sniffed, and slowly put the cap back on. “Stale.”

“You were describing Eugénie’s hair?” Aimée let the question dangle.